


Porters Wood

by fkmoore



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, sad james
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fkmoore/pseuds/fkmoore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another prompt, this time from an anon on tumblr.</p><p>Q and James have been out of the world of MI6 for near enough a decade, long enough that they've both forgotten just how long it's been. They've enjoyed their lives together. Bond is not quite what he used to be and it comes as a shock when Q is kidnapped, taken from him by a familiar, old enemy--but can the man really be considered an enemy? James will do whatever it takes to keep Q safe from harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porters Wood

‘James Bond. Womanizer. Doesn’t really ring true anymore, does it?’

James’ hands are shaking, he’s not sure if it’s because he hasn’t had a drink yet or if it’s the voice he’s hearing in his ears. There’s a voice, so cruel, dripping with mockery, and that voice is mocking him, mocking him because he could not protect the man he loved. He didn’t mind the fact that he was in love with a man, but he did mind those words, he did mind that it was supposed to be insulting, but he didn’t reply, and the voice sighed,

‘Though I suppose I can see it. He’s got… mm… those hips.’

His jaw clenched and his eyelashes were wet with unshed tears, hands clenched into fists by his sides, words were caught in his throat and he couldn’t think straight. They had him. They had Q. They had him. Silva had him. As James spoke, his words were forced, trying his best to rein in his anger and his fear,

‘Don’t you _dare_ touch him.’

‘Oh, but he’s just so pretty, James, I just might not be able to control myself.’

James cut the call short and gunned the car into top gear, tearing down the M1 and towards the outskirts of London. He knew Silva and he knew his penchant for obscurity, his plans, he would know that James was coming, and he’d probably know that James was coming alone. MI6 was long behind all of them. He’d been out for almost a decade, ten years of freedom, of happiness, of sitting pretty with Q in their kitchen, watching him cook the scrambled eggs he pretended to love, drinking the Earl Grey that Q liked so much—James was far more interested in the soft-boiled eggs and English Breakfast tea, but there were never complaints. He counted himself lucky.

He was unused to war, unused to burying his emotions and now was no time to get back into it, he simply did not have the will or the time to bring back _the_ James Bond. He was going to go in armed, he was going to go in armed with his gun, with his anger, with his love, and he was going to pray to the God he did not believe in. He already was praying. Praying for Q’s safety.

This was just a game, a game he had forgotten about in the past few years and a game he should have expected. The more he thought about it the more he realised that it was long overdue. The very thought of Q alone with him was sickening, making his stomach churn this way and that, and he could feel the bile rising in his throat, but he _did not have time._ He highly doubted that there was any real danger involved for either of them, Silva had long given up on the need to kill James Bond and, if truth be told, he had to wonder if the man ever did want to kill him. They both knew each other well enough that it would have been easy to kill each other, easier than kicking a dog, or some other analogy, he thought.

He slowed the car.

So what was it?

Why did he take Q?

What did he want?

James picked up the phone again and dividing his attention on the road and on the phone, he called Q.

It rang out.

He frowned.

The car picked up speed again and it did not take him long to pass through St Albans and reach Porters Wood, the place the call had come from—he mentally reminded himself to thank Q for the snazzy little upgrades he’d done to the phone. The Aston skidded to a halt and James burst out of the driver’s side, keys shoved in his pocket and gun in his hand, running as fast as his legs would carry him towards the old church—though everything was old here.

There was nobody around, not a car, not a flickering light, not the sound of breathing, nothing, as far as he could tell, but his age was getting the best of him, now well into his forties, James Bond was not the man he used to be. He was not sprightly and he was not fast, not anymore, but he was lucky, his one step towards the door had a bullet shooting past him, and before he knew it the sound of gunfire was around him and he was firing back.

If they wanted to kill me, they would have done, he thought to himself, scowling as he kept himself away from the car—even though the MI6 hadn’t stopped his paycheques, just in case, he had enough sense not to ruin another priceless classic—firing back into the darkness. He hit one, maybe two, before breaking through the church window, avoiding the door completely.

James landed in a pile of broken glass, but he pulled himself up immediately, eyes on the area, and there he was. His shining beacon, Q was there, strapped to a chair, mind, with a piece of cloth in his mouth, but he was there, and nobody else was, and this was all far, far too easy. He was still, eyes fixed on the boy (though, he wasn’t really a “boy” anymore) as he sat there. They were both still, barely breathing, watching each other.

‘You’re learning, James.’

The voice made him sick, the same, smooth tone, dripping with amusement, the same inflections on the vowels that he had once been used to, that he had once enjoyed. He frowned a little, turning to the side ever so slightly in time to see Silva slip out of the shadows and into the dim lighting, courtesy of far too many candles to be safe. He moved to step forwards but the blond-haired man in front of him held up a hand, and he tutted,

‘Ah, ah, stay put, double-oh.’

Exasperated, he sighed, glaring daggers,

‘What exactly is it that you want, Silva? You could have had your men kill me a thousand times over over the last few years, you could have had them kill me now, out there, but you didn’t. Why?’

And Silva gave a small, playful smile, crossing towards Q who tried his best to squirm away. It was to no avail and the man, with a villainous grin, set both his hands on Q’s slender shoulders, fingertips brushing over the skin of his neck, twirling the ends of his hair,

‘Where would be the fun in that, James? I don’t want to kill _you_.’

James bristled visibly, his jaw clenching and his hand twitching on the gun,

‘Would you believe me if I said I missed you, Bond? Because I have, so terribly. And you’ve been so busy fawning over _this._ ’

Silva patted Q on the shoulders, gave the younger man a smile and looked backup to James who was still rooted to the spot, and good.

It was all in slow motion, Silva looked up at him, a small smile on his lips and James had raised his gun and shot. The blood was seeping through the other man’s shirt before he had realised what he’d done, before he realised the danger he’d put the both of them in.

There was silence around them as James fumbled with the bonds keeping Q to the chair, there were tears in his eyes as he avoided looking at Silva lying dead on the floor. The anger that coursed through his veins was mingled with the realisation of what he’d done, who he’d killed—a cruel, merciless man he may have been, but he had, once upon a time, been James’ friend a colleague, they had shared experiences and they had shared grievances. When he had left MI6 he thought he had left all of this behind, he thought he’d be free from all of this.

There were still no sounds, no men coming to kill the both of them. He could feel Q’s hands on his shoulders and his eyes opened he found that he was holding Silva’s body, his hands and clothes bloodied, his cheeks wet with silent tears, he could taste the salt on his lips. He couldn’t look away from that face. All the sadness, all the happiness, everything was in that face in that moment, and James let his fingers touch the man’s cheek, touch the skin that was still soft despite his age, despite what the cyanide had done to him.

He’d tried to kill himself for his country, he’d tried to kill himself for M, for MI6, for James and for everybody, he had lain down his life and now James had taken it away.

He struggled but he managed to lift him up, the dead weight that used to be a living, breathing person, he did not look at Q, he did not say anything, he only pulled the body out into the dark, country air. It was heavy with what he’d done, or so he thought, the world was silent and judging him, a weight on his shoulders he might never be relieved of.

‘I have to bury him..’

He muttered to nobody in particular, though Q was at his side, and the boy nodded, he ran off towards the cemetery, certain he’d find something there, a spade, a pitchfork, anything, and James followed, but slowly, his head bent against Silva’s hair. The younger man had found a spade and, holding it in one hand, he led James towards the emptiest area of the cemetery. Bond didn’t know if Silva would have wanted to be buried on consecrated ground, he didn’t know if Silva would have wanted to be buried at all, cremated, he didn’t know—it was likely to be mummification, James thought, just to be a pain. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

Three hours he stayed, digging, arranging and then kneeling by the disturbed soil, Q’s hand on his back. It was all too much and eventually he would have to leave, he would have to leave and inform HQ, tell them what he’d done.


End file.
